


Sacrament

by temporalDecay



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Hermaphroditic Trolls, M/M, Makaracest, Tentabulges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 11:20:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>You don't have time for this.</em> </p><p>But you don't resist it, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacrament

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Monet, because she wanted some Makaracest, so I wrote her some damn Makaracest.
> 
> Just unrepentant smut here, folks.

You turn to leave, codpiece safely lost in the myriad of color that is your modus, when his hands reach for your hips. You stop, then, as the larger troll drapes himself against your back, hands sliding around and following the curve of your hipbones. You want to reach down and _break every. single. motherfucking. finger_. But he's quiet - haha, _quiet everywhere_ \- and it has been a very, very long time, so instead of breaking every bone, you roll back, going lax and deceptively pliant. You don’t resist this, even if you don’t really want it, because at least it’s not some goddamn attempt at stupid quadrant bullshit. It’s not black and it sure as fuck isn’t red, and so long he never even tries to cross those lines, you don’t really care. The only problem here is that _you don’t have time for this shit_ , but you might as well indulge him anyway. 

There really isn't much build up to it, as those hands find their way under your pants and instantly reach to play with the fold of skin hiding between your legs. You bare your teeth at the shock of sensation, leaning back into his body. You hate the size difference between you, of all the things you could hate. You hate the way he lowers himself to the floor, pulling you down with him as his fingers continue to slide over and over the same, sensitive spot, trying to force arousal out of it. It works and it doesn't, and isn't that how it always is? With everything? Your body gives, skin slowly tightening and pulling back, as the heat in your groin concentrates into a wet pulse. You know exactly what it looks like, as more delicate flesh slowly comes into view, and you're glad you've kept your pants for now, because even if your body is already working itself over this, your mind is quietly stewing on something violent and dark and _you don't have time for this_ , but you can't stop it now. 

"I'll rip them out," you hiss, as you feel fingers pressing against the growing slickness at the edge of your nook. You're going to start leaking and it's going to be gross and stupid and _you can't stop_. "Motherfucking stitches, I'll bite. them. _off_. if you don't get it the motherfuck _on_." 

You can feel those rotten lips twist into a smile, a goddamn smile, against the skin of your neck. You can feel them because you think of the thread crusted with blood and the thought of shoving your bulge into that mouth, after sweeps upon sweeps of it being forcefully shut, makes this whole thing almost bearable. You focus on that, instead of the loud, wet sound of fingers prying your nook open, testing the consistency of the lubrication there or just caressing the sensitive walls. You focus on that, because otherwise you might scream. Otherwise you might cry out. Otherwise you might sob in relief when the fingers pull back to play with the tip of your bulge. 

He shifts you and you let him, knees spread and thighs resting on thighs, fingers reaching back to grab onto that mane of hair. You arch your back when he slides in, splitting you open like a gutted fish, and it feels so fucking good you almost scream. You bite on the fingers in your mouth, trying to keep you quiet, and feel him nudge against your mind. You shove back, snarling as you roll your hips and concentrate on forcing every muscle to tighten around him, until it hurts. You can feel him move inside you, you can feel him twist and coil, trying to find the right spot inside, trying to make you buck and swear. You keep a hand in his hair, clenched tight like a leash, and give your other hand for your bulge to coil around. You know he wants it, wants it bad enough, but you'll never reciprocate. You'll never fuck him the way he wants to, never push him like he pushes you. 

_You don't have time for this._

You snarl at him when he takes his fingers out of your mouth, at least there they gave it something to do other than make ridiculous noises because his fucking bulge’s found the edge of your seedflap and you can feel each and every fucking toe curling up every time he rubs against it. You snap your teeth at nothing in particular when he reaches up and ahead. He’s nudging into your mind again, delicately testing the edges of your perception, asking to be heard, talking about ceremonies and rites and _bullshit_. You slam the connection shut, eyes narrowing and slowly growing redder, angrier. You don’t have time for this. You don’t have time for his claws raking over your abdomen, raising thin, purple welts on your skin. You don’t have time for the rhythmic shift of his hips underneath yours, a wet, lewd sound following each twist. You don’t have time for the heat spilling into your veins every time his bulge presses against your fucking seedflap. 

You really don’t have time for his hands pulling out the fucking codpiece out of your goddamn modus – _how?_ – and then sliding it down your throat. 

There are words, tiny words, smug words, pressed against the rim of your mind. Words you don’t give a shit about, but that he won’t stop trying to shove into your fucking skull the same way he keeps shoving his fucking bulge up your nook. You curl your tongue around the shaft in your mouth, angling your neck so it slides down your throat. It shuts you up, at least. It shuts you up when your body starts spasming, hands shaking and eyes rolling back. It shuts you up, and you hate the way drool slides down your chin, mouth dripping to match your fucking nook. 

The murmur keeps twisting and turning at the edge of your perception, like a fucking purrbeast waiting to be acknowledged, and you feel irrationally angry about it. You’re always irrationally angry about everything, but that’s not the point. The point is that you don’t have time for this, but your body is already tensing for release. The point is that he pulls the codpiece away and throws it back into the depths of your modus, the precise moment you feel your seedflap give in and flood your nook with genetic material. You scream and you bite down on the scream, trying to quiet down. You squish the sound like you would a bug. Like you want to squish him, until he’s a fucking smear of purple on the ground, just like Nepeta was a smear of green on your clubs. You keep quiet as your body rolls against his, forcing his bulge out and dripping all over his lap, and _you don’t fucking care_. You’re not about to return the favor. 

“Get your fucking hands off me,” you snap, pushing yourself forward, stumbling and growling as soon as you can move again. You tug at your pants, pulling them up your hips as your eyes narrow, and he _smiles_ at you. 

You do so not have time for this bullshit. 

You fade into the darkness, forcing your knees to not be made of fucking slime, forcing your way out through the cracks in the memory and the dreambubbles. You don’t look back. You don’t look back because you know you’ll see him sprawled there, lap drenched in your genetic material, bulge curled around his fingers and nook dripping onto the floor. You don’t look back because _you don’t have time for this_. 

You still hear an echo in the back of your mind, just before you plunge yourself into the abyss between worlds; a ghost of deranged laughter that makes you shiver inside your bones. 

You don’t look back. 


End file.
